Victory Roll - Chap 4 (M)
by GiuliettaC
Summary: (M-rated version of Chapter 4 of "Victory Roll") May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort.


**Victory Roll – Chapter 4 (M)**

**Summary:**

(M-rated version of Chapter 4 of "Victory Roll")

May 1942. Five months after the US enters World War II, Foyle is dazzled by a smile at The Royal Victoria Hotel, nearly comes to grief on Castle Hill, and is treated to some good old southern comfort.

**Disclaimer:**

The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.

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**Author's Notes:**

For the **T-rated version of this chapter** (and indeed for all other chapters of this fic), go to the story entitled, simply, "**Victory Roll**".

...

"Ack-ack" is wartime slang for anti-aircraft artillery.

…

For _dancesabove _– a woman of excellent taste in excellent men ;o)

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**_Previously, in "Victory Roll"_**

_The howl subsided into whimpers. Christopher was spent. _

_Jocelyn withdrew her hand from inside him and rolled her head against his left leg. She felt his fingers loosen and shift to cradle the nape of her neck. "Jocelyn," he panted. "I do... I do apologise. I hope... I didn't hurt you in any way. The sensation... was so powerful, I couldn't control…"_

_"Shhh!" she admonished, reaching for him as he ebbed into a flaccid state. "I know you've got good manners, but you can put 'em away for right now. This is sex, Sweetie! You can relax the upper lip, and save the stiffness for the rest of ya."_

_A deep rumble started underneath her right ear. Christopher was laughing. Christopher Foyle was laughing. She had made him come, and made him laugh. Well, hey, perhaps she'd make him say he loved her. Maybe._

_Christopher's right hand strayed down to her breast. "You feel like heaven. Hope this hasn't ruined me for later…" he murmured._

_Within seconds, he was fast asleep._

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Late Sunday Afternoon, 17****th**** May 1942**

Satisfied with her handiwork—a boneless lover slumped in his wing-easy chair, and snoring softly—Jocelyn covered Christopher from the neck down with a chenille rug and let him sleep. Then she tiptoed round the sitting room, collecting up the discarded clothing and tidying away the first aid kit.

Content that she had restored order to the room she crept onto the settee and made herself comfortable, curling up opposite her slumbering lover, her head supported on one hand.

Jocelyn took a mental picture of Sleeping Christopher for her life album. His head lolled to the left, away from his injured shoulder, revealing the greying curls at the nape of his neck. His sensitive, expressive lips were slightly parted. His knees were open and his right leg straight. She smiled contentedly. The rug across his chest and lap preserved his modesty, but she was well acquainted now with what lay hidden underneath. Exploring Christopher's body had been an exhilarating adventure in the vein of every missionary expedition known to man—and she'd been the one to open him up like a forgotten continent. To that extent, this man was hers, and always would be.

The act of bringing him to ecstasy had given her a gratifying sense of completion that warmed her to a depth she hadn't felt in years. And she wondered sleepily if there would soon be more, and whether, under his attentive hands, she would know ultimate fulfilment before their time together drew to its natural close.

She felt her eyelids droop, and drifted into slumber to the gentle music of her lover's soft snuffling breaths across the room.

…

"Jocelyn… gorgeous thing… Jocelyn…" She dragged herself awake to the sensation of fingers lightly sweeping a stray wisp of hair back from her temple. Christopher was bending over her, leaning on his stick, chenille rug tucked around his waist. His eyes were crinkled with affection. "It's after five, Love. Would you like some tea?"

Jocelyn blinked up at him lazily, then caught his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Sure; that would be wonderful, Hon."

Foyle gestured to the cup of tea he'd placed next to the settee on a low table. "Sorry, spilled some of it in the saucer, but I'll get better with practice." He paused. "Also, I wonder if you'd help me…?" he glanced behind him towards the hall. "I need to get upstairs."

His bladder, actually, was bursting. It had been all that he could do, as he'd struggled with the tea-making paraphernalia, to refrain from relieving himself in the kitchen sink. Upbringing, he supposed, had stopped , no. If he were honest, army life had knocked such inhibitions out of him. _Rosalind, actually._ Rosalind had been the one who'd cured him of bad habits and made him a domesticated male.

"Ohhh! Suuuure! Poor baby." Rousing herself, Jocelyn scrambled to her feet and fed an arm around his waist. "We'll take the stairs together. Slowly. You in front, me behind."

They trod the staircase carefully, and made it safely to the landing. Jocelyn ushered Christopher into the bathroom, then disappeared in search of something easy for him to wear. She found his dressing gown hanging on a hook behind the door of what she took to be the main bedroom. Glancing briefly round the room, her eyes alighted on a small, framed photograph on the mantelshelf above the fireplace. It showed a woman—in her thirties? This was Rosalind. Or had been. With gentle prompting over dinner at The V, Christopher had opened up a little about his late wife. _More than a touch of nostalgia in his heart for this sweetie_, mused Jocelyn, extending a forefinger to trace around the lady's face.

"Hi, Rosalind," she whispered. "He's been a long way off. I'm gonna haul him back. Don't be mad. He's got a lotta years left. Can't be grievin' you forever."

Christopher emerged from his ablutions, and Jocelyn met him on the landing, guiding him across into the bedroom. "Found your stuff," she told him brightly. "You can forego the rug and still hang on to your modesty."

As he stood looking down at the things she'd laid out for him—dressing gown and slippers—Jocelyn's arms hugged his waist from behind. She spoke into his shoulder "Not that I wouldn't rather see you in nothing… but your English climate's pretty harsh. Wouldn't like to see ya catch a chill."

Foyle snorted good-naturedly. "Didn't seem to bother you downstairs when you were shearing all my clothes off."

Jocelyn nuzzled his back. "Had to check the size of my catch. Y'know how it is."

Foyle fought to invert the smile that threatened to invade his face. "Oh? So, how—um—was it then? Dimensionally-speaking?"

"Eleven-pounder. The hell with letting it go. Decided to cook and eat it."

Foyle's upside-down smile lost its battle and evolved into a beam. He stroked her fingers, resting where the rug was cinched around his waist. "Your tea'll be getting cold."

"Lie down, why don'tcha?" she urged. "I'll bring our tea upstairs."

In the kitchen, Jocelyn found the tray that Christopher had laid and then abandoned—presumably he hadn't trusted himself to carry it without spilling the lot. The teapot was swaddled in a woollen cosy, so she simply collected her cup from the sitting room and set it down next to his.

Christopher was lying on the bed in his dressing gown when she returned with the tray. _Glad we doffed the socks downstairs, _she told herself. _Cain't see the romance in a man with socks on_.

Handing him a cup of tea, she asked "Mind if I climb up there with ya? Looks comfy." The question, though, was purely for the sake of form. They both knew right where things were headed.

"Be my guest."

Soon they were sitting companionably, propped against the headboard, sipping the reviving brew.

Jocelyn gave a contented sigh, and snuggled against Christopher's left flank. "Beats being machine-gunned by a Messerschmitt, huh?"

"What _I_ couldn't understand at first,"—Foyle settled his left arm around Jocelyn's shoulders—"is why the ack-acks up on West Hill didn't open fire. The plane flew off unchallenged. But then it dawned on me: the bastar— the _blessed_ thing came at us from _in_land."

"So… they couldn't turn the guns round fast enough?"

"Right. And he flew low. Suppose the direction of approach combined with the low angle was too much for them. Made sitting ducks of us up there."

"He winged ya, Honey, didn't he? But you saved me. Really thought I'd bought it on that hill." She stroked his biceps under the wool cloth of his dressing gown. "Snuggle down here. I wanna say a proper thank you."

Foyle's eyebrows rose. "Entirely unnecessary. In any case, I thought perhaps you'd already expressed your thanks downstairs, um, earlier."

"Sweetie, I ain't even started," drawled Jocelyn. She scooted down the bed and began to undo the knotted cord of his dressing gown.

Foyle frowned in mock exasperation, fielding her busy hand. "What the devil, Mrs St Just? Does _every_ belt beckon to be undone in your presence?"

Jocelyn collapsed onto her back in giggles. "I guess it's just… I found a way to get through to ya earlier, and I wanna keep the channels open."

"Mmmight be time for us to try a different tack. My privilege to return the favour." He turned and placed his teacup on the bedside table then shifted carefully down the bed propped up on his left elbow, face-to-face with Jocelyn.

She regarded him with a mixture of amazement and longing. Gazing across at her with twinkling blue eyes, and the slightest patient, indulgent smile on his lips, Christopher Foyle looked for all the world like a man who'd been given an unexpected present he was deeply touched to have, but unsure he deserved.

He reached and cupped her left cheek, so that her chin rested in the vee of his hand, and stroked her right cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Jocelyn, you are a beautiful woman, inside and out." Then he bent and kissed her, pushing her lips apart gently with his tongue.

Jocelyn's own tongue rose to welcome the ingress, lapping tenderly at the warm, moist, flesh invading her mouth. A light moan escaped her, and this encouraged Foyle to meld his lips more strongly with hers, pushing more insistently with his tongue and articulating his head in obvious absorption with the moment. Once they had settled into the rhythm and cadence of the kiss, Foyle drew his hand away from Jocelyn's chin, and let it ghost down over her left breast, stroking first the outer curve of her bosom, and then its ample underside. The soft flesh underneath her clothing yielded to his explorations, and he passed his thumb across the hardened bud of her breast and back again.

The contact of his thumb with her peaked nipple drew a sharp little cry from Jocelyn, not unlike the mewling of a baby kitten. It sent a powerful sense of dominance to Foyle's core. Any earlier doubts he might have harboured—any fears of being spoiled for further action—left him. He was quite suddenly erect and pressing hard against the curve of Jocelyn's hip. In the circumstances, he could do nothing other than slide his injured right leg over her, and, though the flexing of the muscle reminded him with a hearty twinge that he'd indeed been shot, the pain faded quickly behind the insistent ache of his arousal.

Delighted and encouraged by the signs of readiness, both on his own part and Jocelyn's, he was further entranced to feel her writhing impatiently under him, begging his attentions. And so he settled contentedly over her petite body to pursue the kiss and unashamedly grind himself against her in a way that, frankly, well-mannered gentlemen should know better than to do.

The movement of his hand on Jocelyn's breast intensified to steady and insistent kneading as the kiss transformed itself into a twentieth-century Norman conquest. Foyle's tongue was getting greedy on the powerful responses of the woman in his bed, and all her little whimpers, cries and moans were drawing him into territory unexplored in a full decade. If he didn't stop, he feared he would explode all over her, delicious bloody tempting Christ I want to be inside her will she let me Jesus going to come if I don't

_Stop. _

With supreme effort, Foyle tore himself away from Jocelyn's lips, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut to head off the rising wave that was about to put him back three hours and ruin everybody's fun. "I think," he panted, "it would help… if we continued this… unclothed."

Jocelyn's eyes were half-closed from the ecstasy of being kissed and fondled by a fetchingly excited male. Her core was dripping with arousal for the second time that afternoon. Whatever it now took to expedite matters was just fine with her.

Foyle cocked a rueful eyebrow at his tempting companion. "My right hand's… nnnot too dextrous at the moment. Nothing would delight me more than to unwrap you like a Christmas present, but…"

Jocelyn lay back for a short while, panting lightly. _Fine,_ she thought. _If life deals lemons, make some lemonade._

"Say no more, soldier." She took his cheeks between her hands, delivered a show-stopping smacker of a kiss that left the poor man blinking in astonishment, and rolled nimbly off the bed. Standing at the bedside and capturing his eyes with hers, she reached under her left arm for the zip that would release her dress. She planned on giving Christopher Foyle a striptease he would not forget.

Drawing down the fastener, she threw her head back, tossing her wavy hair. Foyle's semi-useful right hand lifted to his brow and wiped away the perspiration that had formed there. Then it moved to rest across his groin. He closed his eyes in concentration briefly, and breathed, "Jocelyn, do please excuse me." He managed a pained grin. "I, um… if you're going to do that, I need to, um, control this before it jumps the gun." He reached inside his dressing gown and lightly squeezed the tip of himself into submission.

Jocelyn, for her part, managed a delighted giggle. In this new game, she could tease him mercilessly if she wished. She reached down for the hem of her frock, and crossing her arms, drew it smoothly up and over her head. Letting it drop to the floor, she ran her hands over her breasts, keeping an inexorable hold on Christopher's eyes. Like two deep tortured pools of blue, they sparkled back at her from under puckered eyebrows. Jocelyn felt a slow, viscous trickle down the inside of her thigh, and recognised her body was preparing her for Christopher. She anticipated making love to him and ached to hear her name pronounced in a renewal of their ecstasy.

Her slip followed in short order. She stood before him then in garter belt and stockings, French knickers and a silken brassiere. Reaching behind her, she freed the hooks that held the garment taut against her slender frame; then she slipped a forearm underneath her breasts to stop them tumbling from the satin cups.

Foyle's hand was still inside his gown, and pressing firmly on his tip. Since Jocelyn had begun stripping off her clothes, his pulse had risen sharply, and now the noise of it was pounding in his ears. He took a deep breath. "Jocelyn, please come here, _now._"

She crawled across the mattress towards him, arching her back, one hand supporting the satin cups against her breasts. When she reached his face, she bent to take his lips and felt his hand reach up to ease her forearm down, and with it, her brassiere. Her breasts bobbed free and she felt him shift further down the bed and take her bosom in his mouth. His tongue laved lazily around the nipple, sucking it to an aching peak. Foyle eased Jocelyn onto her back and leaned in to take her other breast. "Luscious. Blissful. Tell me what you want."

"Oh this is juuust fiiiiine," she panted, revelling in her nakedness beneath his gaze.

"You _are_ a beauty," he observed gravely. "May I?" His right hand strayed to the grips that held her hair pinned back from her face.

"Sure, Honey." She tucked in her chin and smiled down at his worshipful expression. "Whatever your heart desires. You sure drive _me_ insane."

Foyle gently slid the pins out of her hair and ran his fingers through the wavy locks, combing them free so that they framed her features. Then he brought his face down close to hers and breathed in her fragrance. It was, he fancied, a combination of vanilla and orange blossom. At any rate, it was a breath of heaven to his woman-starved existence, and he wanted nothing more than to drown in her aroma. To breathe more of this woman scent.

Slowly, he made his way down her torso, leaving a trail of kisses between her breasts and on down to her navel till he reached the waistband of her French knickers. He kissed down past it, over the satin material towards the junction of her thighs.

Jocelyn began to squirm. The foreplay was incredibly arousing, but she needed completion. She stroked his hair as his lips settled over her mons. "Christopher," she breathed, "I need you, now, please, Baby."

Foyle's nose was picking up the powerful scent of woman, and it made him reluctant to shift from the delicious position where he lay. At the same time, he desperately wanted to give Jocelyn the pleasure that she craved. His lips moved south and his nose burrowed between her legs, inhaling the sharp musky spice of her arousal.

"Jocelyn," he whispered urgently, "you would tell me… if anything I do offends you?"

"Sweet thing," she panted, "I can't imagine any way you could. You feel right on track to me."

For Foyle, this invitation was sufficient, and he fed both arms underneath her hips, noting with immense pleasure as he did so, the muscular pertness of her derriere. In this raised position, Jocelyn was thrust into his face, and he opened his mouth to nip and tease her through her sodden underwear.

She let out a whimper. "Oh—oh, my God! You got me! Sweet Jesus! Oh, my darlin'. Oh!"

"Seen you dance," mumbled Foyle into her covered folds. "Let's see if I can make you sing."

With that, he plunged his tongue in past the loose crotch of her knickers and found her opening in a single strike. Anchored there an instant, he pushed aside the troublesome satin material with his nose and ran the tip of it between her folds, nudging at her engorged bud from underneath.

Jocelyn gasped at the stab of arousal that shot up inside her, and set her channel pulsing with a surge of pleasure. "Darlin'," she panted. "Don't stop; that is juuust heaven!"

Foyle's mouth was fully occupied, so he could only answer in his mind. _No intention of stopping, you stunning woman, till I make you tremble from your gorgeous bloody nipples to your toes. _Thereupon he applied himself to the pleasant duty of bringing Jocelyn to the peak of ecstasy, and did so with a determined fervour that he wouldn't have believed possible till now.

His member ached with unassuaged arousal, but he pushed it hard into the mattress and devoted himself to the mechanics and the magics of making music with a woman's flesh. He hadn't played this melody for years, but somehow the harmonics all came flooding back. It was a symphony inside his head; and outside he conducted the performance with his lips and tongue. He sucked, he licked, he twirled, he nipped; she mewled, she bucked, she shuddered and by God she came… and it was wonderful. He grasped her underneath her satin-clad hips with his good arm and held her to his face, tasting the spasms running up his tongue.

Her voice rose through his ministrations to a rhythmic catena of high-pitched breathy squeals of consummation. He could feel the throbbing underneath his lips and drank her juices like a parched man lying prone and drinking from a mountain stream.

Jocelyn's ecstasy washed over him, leaving him slaked and smiling idiotically into her nether flesh.

When her legs had ceased to tremble round his ears, Foyle shifted his weight onto his left side, and lay grinning at her stockinged thigh.

"I have a question for you, Sweet." A small smile spread across his stubble-darkened cheeks.

"Uh-huh?" panted Jocelyn, gaping blindly at the ceiling as she fought to catch her breath. "What's that, Hon?"

"Did you ever think of training for the opera?"

Jocelyn felt a chuckle start low in her belly and travel up until it set her chest and shoulders shaking. All of a sudden she was giggling helplessly, and couldn't stop. And underneath it all, the steady _basso _rumble of Foyle's closed-mouthed laughter burrowing into her thigh. Post-coital hysteria had claimed them both.

Oh, please God that there would be more. And soon.

******** TBC ********

Yes, I think there'll be more. Soon.

...

If you've read and liked this, I should hate for you to miss _nocturnefauré's 'Where to, Sir?",_ a no-nonsense fun-angst-romance that gets the protagonists where they want to be faster than you can say 'bin lid', then keeps them there.

**GiuC**


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